


Love Aria

by WolffyLuna



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Pining, Post-Canon, Requited Pining, post crimson flower, serenades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Edelgard is awoken by Dorothea singing the love confession from her opera.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Love Aria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/gifts).



> I hope you like it!

Edelgard awoke, moonlight on her face and a haunting melody running through her dreams. At first, she thought she had woken from a nightmare, that melody the musical echo of fading screams. Waking up from a nightmare was almost passé, was the default. But as she woke up more, and her senses cleared, she realised two things.

Firstly, that she had none of the cold fear in her gut, or hot anxiety in running through her veins, that lingered after a nightmare.

Secondly, the melody was real.

Someone really was singing. It sounded like they were singing under her balcony. They were a soprano, singing operatically. She had no clue what the words were—operatic sopranos were not known for their enunciation, and the distance between them wasn’t doing any favours.

She got out of bed, and picked up Aymr, in case the singer meant her harm. It was unlikely—she had a good guess whose voice is was—but it didn’t pay to get lax. She opened the glass door, and padded out onto the balcony, the tiles cold under her bare feet.

Dorothea stood on the lawn underneath the balcony, singing a melody that rested on the knife edge between sweet and sad.

Edelgard put Aymr down, making a heavy thunk as the handle rested against the door.

She hadn’t seen Dorothea for awhile—well, not closely. Whenever she had a clear evening on her schedule, as rare as they were, she went to the opera. And when she had the luxury of choice, she went to the performances Dorothea was part of. Occasionally she was chorus, sometimes a soloist for a single song, but more often, she was lead soprano. Some of that was her being a known name after the war, but some of that was the fact that she was meant to be lead. She owned the stage. The other performers acted around her, as if she was the star their bodies orbited. She enraptured the audience even during other’s solos. It was magical to watch—more magical than the fire and thunder Dorothea had called down on her enemies but a year ago.

But Edelgard hadn’t seen her without the separation of performer and audience since—well, a year ago. When the war ended. They hadn’t run in the same circles, and Edelgard could not justify the finding the time. Even if Adrestia was no longer at war, she was still emperor.

The song wound down, Dorothea ended it on a melodic question that never answered.

The song was unfamiliar to her. She was not an expert on opera, but she knew most of the popular ones, and this aria was not part of any she’d heard.

She rested a hand on the balcony rail. “What is that from?”

Dorothea looked up at her. Edelgard could not tell from this distance whether the bags under her eyes were real, or from stage make up that had smudged. “It’s from yours,” she said.

Edelgard had never quite understood why Dorothea kept saying the opera she was writing belonged to Edelgard. By rights, it was her work—Edelgard was merely the inspiration.

Dorothea shifted nervously on her feet. She’d seemed more confident before, when she was singing instead of speaking. A performer’s tic, being more comfortable performing being. Edelgard understood.

“I realised there was a song missing from it.” She smiled bright and shiny and definitely pure acting. “Every good opera has to have a dramatic love confession.”

Edelgard frowned. “Are you actually asking?” She half hoped she was—but it was foolish.

(When Dorothea had said, all those many years ago, that when you met the right person, one would have passion to spare—Edelgard hadn’t believed her then. Maybe believed it would apply to other people, but not to herself. Passion and high emotion were luxuries for others.

But she’d learned more about herself, over the years. One thing she learned: while her passion was not as—fiery, as obvious, as the passion of others, it was still there. It was a quiet thing, but it ran deep, like still waters with a hidden current that could drag you down

She ignored it, when she noticed. When she noticed who inspired it.

If she had merely been the eighth princess, far away from any chance at the throne, maybe she could have eloped with a beautiful and creative and caring opera singer. But she wasn’t. She was Emperor. There were some things duty demanded. Some things she couldn’t have, not matter how much she wanted them.

Dorothea looked up at her, eyes bright and shining. “Why would I write a whole song if I wasn’t serious?”

“It’s—a beautiful song,” Edelgard said, stalling for time to think of how to respond.

(Some part of her, a selfish part, said: if you could make one decision purely for your own happiness, this would be the one you would pick, yes? The one decision you’d make just for yourself, even if you could never make one like that again. Why don’t you make it, then? You could withstand never make another such decision again, but you might not withstand saying no to this one.

Another part, equally selfish, but more politically astute, said: is there any marriage that would be of political benefit to you? Is there anyone in Fódlan, who’s life bound in yours, would improve your station? Is there any reason to listen to duty, if there was no way duty could help.

She tried to ignore them. They were selfish thoughts.

But she had the opportunity right in front of her. And she’d yearned for Dorothea for so long, and she’d written off any chance, but right now it was _possible_ \--)

“I understand if you say no. I wrote so the song would work either way,” she said, trying to turn away from the difficult matter of love to the easy matter of song and story. “Just, Edie—”

She breathed in, and realised she had already made her decision. The selfish parts were right. And while ome could withstand the winds of passion—she was not one of those people. She leaned over the balcony rail, subconsciously trying to close the distance between them. She wanted to say something dramatic, romantic, something that could quell Dorothea’s mounting worry—but nothing came to mind. She was not the right sort of eloquent. She didn’t know how to right a love confession… She just wasn’t a librettist.

She went for the next best thing. The true thing. “Please, call me El.”


End file.
